


Adamant

by nightram



Series: Brienne Lavellan [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Coping with trauma, F/M, Inquisitor with prosthetic limb, PTSD, Trauma, post-Fade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4261278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightram/pseuds/nightram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Twisting on her heel, she turns to face the gaping hole in reality. The Warden leaps through the Tear and is caught by the Seeker by her side. Raising her cursed hand, the Inquisitor reaches for the rip and wills it shut with all her might as the Nightmare descends on Hawke.</i>
</p><p>The Fade takes its toll on both those who were there, and left behind in the mortal world. What she saw shook Lavellan to the core, and comprehending the whole experience proves to be a more than a trial.</p><p>A take on the events immediately after Adamant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adamant

Stumbling out of the Tear is like tripping out of the ocean; it is unnatural, disorientating. Her skin ripples with a deep and repulsive sense of _wrongness_. The dream water that had splashed on her as she trudged through the cascading lakes and sinking rivers fizzles and then disappears from her clothes and hair. Her head spins until her body remembers gravity, and she looks up from her doubled-over position.

Soldiers dappled throughout the square stare at her in awe. She could see their wide eyes behind visors, and hanging jaws obscured by agents’ masks. Her chest is pounding, her lungs stinging. She swallows dryly and forces herself to straighten, to resume her role as the Inquisitor.

Twisting on her heel, she turns to face the gaping hole in reality. The Warden leaps through the Tear and is caught by the Seeker by her side. Raising her cursed hand, the Inquisitor reaches for the rip and wills it shut with all her might as the Nightmare descends on Hawke. It was a ball of eyes and tentacles, and it was so, so massive. She couldn’t comprehend the fact she was not looking into some magic mirror, that she could truly reach in there, into the Fade. She is overcome with emotion. Her mark stutters, and the Tear is gone.

The crowd gathering cheers. It is so loud, and it hurts. Her brain rattles in her skull and her ears ring. Too loud. She turns her face away, shrugs up her shoulders in an attempt to shield herself from all the noise. The voices make stars bloom in her vision and her neck bristle. Cassandra places a tattered glove on her arm with an apologetic expression before she gently pushes the Inquisitor to turn back to the people. “You must decide now,” she murmurs under the roar. 

The Inquisitor looks over the Seeker’s shoulder, and sees the Warden beyond her. He is clutching at his chest, but he stands tall. There is something in his eyes, something akin to nostalgia. He has missed this; celebration.

It is with confidence that she decree the Wardens allies of the Inquisition. They are an old organisation, and for all their faults, must be preserved for their history and their powers amidst these hushed whispers of Archdemons and Darkspawn. She could not rule out the possibility of what Corypheus and his dragon were, and so must keep this cursed army, for better or worse. Her advisors, companions, and allies alike would all berate her in some way for this decision, but it was her job to make these hard choices.

The Wardens unleash their mighty roar once more. An honour to Hawke’s sacrifice. Many of their faces are bloodied, their wings stripped from their shoulders and helms. These soldiers had been clipped, and now tethered to her whim. They thought this was salvation, but bitter remorse stains her tongue.

Her people stand around and between the blue armour, their green a familiar and comforting sight. Red marked each and every one of them, and these were only the ones who still walked. She worried who may have fallen. It seized her heart like a vice. This Inquisition was her clan now, and she their Keeper.

“Inquisitor.” Leliana approaches, her bow thrown across her chest. A vulgar red mark splashes her freckled face and had been smeared across her chin. “What happened in the Fade? What did you see?”

Cassandra forces herself to stand proud, but her heavy footfall betrays her fear. She grips her sword too tightly, her fists shudder. “You must not ask us to speak of it here,” she whispers, and it sounds like venom. “You… _She_ was there.” The whites of the Spymaster’s eyes widen and nearly swallow her face whole, and she reaches for the Seeker’s arm for support.

The scene pains her to watch, and the Inquisitor turns away. She can’t maintain this facade but she endeavours regardless because she simply must. She stumbles as if she were in a dream, and looks for the boy with the hat so big it rivalled that of his compassion. He had been so scared. He wanted to help everyone, but no one could help him. 

Instead she meets Dorian’s withdrawn gaze. The mage stares beyond the Inquisitor, seemingly into nothing. She steps towards him, and suddenly he returns to his body. Subtly, he shakes his head. He needed to be alone, or at least left to his thoughts. She disagrees, but allows him his solitude. The Beyond had shaken those around her in ways she could not have anticipated.

The Inquisitor clenches her fists and fights the trembling threatening to shake her body. Where was her Commander? He had been steering the siege, and would’ve stepped up to fill her boots when she fell through the rip she opened. Leliana would not have been far from him. He must be worried.

She spies the Knight-Captain. His tattoos are hard to miss. Stealing one last glance at the Hands of the Divine who stand closely, sharing their renewed grief and whispers, the Inquisitor marches up to the Captain.

“Rylen.” Her voice sounds more controlled than she expected. “Where’s Commander Cullen?”

The warrior salutes her. If he were tired, his movements didn’t suggest so. “Making himself busy with organising triage, Your Worship. Just beyond the walls.” Quickly, he falls back into a more relaxed stance. Rylen holds hastily written orders in his hand, a messenger beside him. “I suggest you see him,” he clears his throat with a grunt, “We all watched you fall into the Rift.”

Thrusting her staff into his grip, the Inquisitor wraps her hands around his to assure his grip is tight. “I am glad you are safe,” she whispers, “I will go see him now. Thank you.”

Her boots clack on the sandy stones as Inquisitor Lavellan hurries herself as quickly as her aching bones can take her. The exhaustion and grief prickles her eyes, and she is embarrassed by the sting. She will not break where all her people can see. Her hands shake, and she tries to ball them once more as she marches towards the splintered gate. Leaving Adamant is more straightforward than entering it had been, and she is thankful.

Stepping over the broken planks of what once was the main gate, she notices the red pools and the absence of their bodies. The cleanup must have started before she returned. Had the armies truly paused to watch and wait? She had never been in a battle before, let alone one so large. She struggled to comprehend these small things about war.

The hollow and rhythmic beat of pegs being hammered into the sand rattle through the desert. A small collective of tents had already been pitched, and come nightfall, there would be a city. A flag with the red cross she had learned represented the _shem’s_ symbol for medical aide fluttered leisurely, uncaring of the lives that had been lost today.

With purposeful strides, she makes her way through the shifting sand. The largest tent, assumedly the main assembly, was bustling with able-bodied soldiers, agents, healers, and surgeons rushing in and out and around. She steps over a guideline tethered to the earth, and peers in at the mess of people and bodies. No one pays her any mind, and she is glad.

“No, this can’t be everyone. I want more scouts out beyond the South-eastern front.” The familiar Ferelden accent, hushed as not to startle the resting and dead, skips across her ears. If she had not been listening for him, she would have missed it.

Lavellan snakes her way in, careful not to bump anyone or trip on their feet, her own feeling as heavy as lead. She weaves through to the far side where the Commander stands just beyond the other exit, two agents watching him attentively. Reaching out, she places a hand on Cullen’s armoured shoulder and tugs, impulsively demanding he turn his attention from the conversation.

At first, his expression is pure and utter frustration. He is stressed; the grey smudges under his eyes parade it. It takes a moment for Cullen to register her face and he mouths her name. Without hesitation, he accepts her arms held out to him, reaches for her waist, and pulls her tightly to him. He swallows her in his embrace, and she clings to him, desperate for his touch.

Lavellan presses her face into his stubbled neck and gasps, biting back a sob. Gritting her teeth, she hugs him as tightly as she can for all his rigid plated armour. The things she saw upon falling into the Rift flash before her minds eye and she weeps. She holds him tighter and she thinks she felt him stifle a sob.

“Thank the Maker,” he whispers into her hair, his eyes pressed shut as he breathes in her smell. Cullen threads his fingers through her locks, and presses a kiss to her crown.

She wishes she could hold him forever, or at least until the grief ran it’s course. But she is still the Inquisitor, and she has expectations and duties to fulfil. She draws in a shuddering breath, holding it, and releasing what she can of the tension knotting in her gullet. There are orders she must give, and plans she must make. She takes a step back, and Cullen’s hand finds her cheek. She wipes her tears and returns the tender gesture.

Regretfully, the Commander breaks the embrace with wet eyes. His fingers trail down her neck, to her shoulder, then depart as he turns to face the scouts who stand watching with sad smiles. “Take who you can, and get back to the front.” His voice is less strained now. The two salute the pair and disappear back into Adamant.

Cullen shifts back to Lavellan. “You need to rest,” he murmurs, reaching for her but falling short. “There will be makeshift quarters prepared, I will see to it that it is sooner rather than later.” He makes to march off, but a stern grip finds his wrist and he swings around. Even though she could never match his strength, her touch held so much control over him. Cullen often lays awake at night wondering if such a thing should distress him.

“No, the wounded come first.” Her fingers shake, and she prays he does not notice. “I… will wait here, or, something.” She glances over her shoulder, back into the makeshift hospice. The distinct sounds of suffering and grief meet her pointed ears. Lavellan returns her gaze to Cullen with a haunted expression. “I have duties to fulfil, just like everyone else.” She swallows the lump in her throat. She tries to convey her thoughts through her eyes: _please don’t leave me alone_.

Cullen watches her, and tenses his jaw. He could relate, and that thought shook him. “You will stay with me then,” the Commander concludes, “you can assist me with these.” Gesturing to the half-prepared rotations and assignments still held in his calloused hand. Lavellan struggles to adopt her Inquisitor air once again.

“Will we send our fit soldiers back to the main camp, and keep the Wardens here for the night?” Leaning over his plated arm, the elf peers at what the Commander has written. She can make out the beginning of a detailed update on rations.

“The Wardens are still vulnerable to possession. I’d rather we keep enough of our army here in case something happens,” Cullen grunts, turning the page so Lavellan can see it better. He flicks through the pile and hands her some sheets. “I’ve already organised it. Leliana will escourt the remainder back to the main camp.”

“I assume you’ll be staying here then in case something goes awry?” The Inquisitor looks to the warrior expectantly, and he nods. “I will keep my party here too, then,” she concludes, reading over the orders she now holds. “I want Cassandra to be sent with Leliana, however.”

Cullen attempts to hide his confusion, but his exhaustion lets it bleed through. “Why?” A healer comes to enter the tent, and the pair step back to allow them through.

“What we saw in the Fade,” Lavellan clenches her fists, and the paper crumples. She struggles to not wring her hands when her voice wavers. “The Divine.”

“Oh,” the Commander breathes. His eyes fall, then turn to the fortress’ massive walls. He is silent as he bores holes into the stone and mortar; looking beyond the bloodstained fortifications. Cullen’s mouth moves as if to speak, but he stops himself and worries at his lip. “Will you tell me what you saw?”

“I will. Later,” Lavellan murmurs into the sand. Shrugging as if to rid herself of the memories, she runs her fingers through her hair to push it back out of her face. She glances back into the makeshift hospice. “We need more room for the injured. I want two more tents pitched within the next hour, Commander,” she thrusts his documents back into his hand. “I will assist the healers with what little knowledge I have.”

“Please, my l-, Your Worship,” Cullen clears his throat with a fist pressed to his mouth. “Then what will you have me do with everything else?” He frowns so hard he thinks his face might crack. He doesn’t want to let her out of his sight, not after whatever Hell her and the others must’ve witnessed on the other side of that Tear. It was overbearing, but all he wanted right now was to hold this woman tight in his arms where he knew she’d be safe. However they had roles to fulfil, and responsibilities they could not ignore.

Removing her gauntlets, the Inquisitor places them in her pack and rolls her sleeves up past her elbows. “You know how I like things done,” she smiles sadly. Her kind eyes glisten, and she blinks away the tears she so dearly wishes to shed. Instead she reaches her uncovered hands for her Commander’s face, and presses her palms to his cheeks. “I will find you if I need you.”


End file.
